Wholly Yours
by ThoseWhoWander98
Summary: Sam loves her, and she loves him. A oneshot fluff story from Sam's point of view about he and Rosie's marriage.


_Yes, I am aware this is my fourth Sam/Rosie fanfiction in, like, eight days. Don't judge me. I'll try and cut down._

_**Wholly Yours**_

The pub was loud and ruckus as the hobbits filed out at closing-time. Sam let Merry and Pippin get ahead of him—he wanted to stay and check something. When almost everybody had left the humid, musty, low-ceilinged building, Sam approached the counter where a round-cheeked, pleasant-faced, curly-haired hobbit-girl dried mugs. She was the last bar-maid to stick around every night and the first to arrive every day, picking up the slack that the others, tired after little sleep, let hang.

Sam stood by the counter awkwardly, waiting for her to finish. The pile of dishes was high and suddenly it struck him that he should help her. Gently, he cleared his throat. Rosie looked up, startled—she thought everybody had left. "Why, hello, Sam," she said, pleasantly surprised. The note of happiness in her voice gave Sam a surge of confidence and he spoke.

"You wan' some help there, Miss Rosie?" he asked her, blushing. His humble Shire roots were evident in his pronounced casual speech, which always grew more apparent when he was nervous. "Only I saw you had an awful lot of dishes to dry." Rosie smiled.

"That would be nice, thank you, Sam," she replied, handing him a dishtowel. Sam joined her behind the counter and picked up a mug to dry. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, and then Rosie said, "It's dark tonight. No moon."

Sam nodded. "It's the new moon tonight. It could be clear as day out but you would never see the moon. I don' like it. It makes the flowers all antsy," he explained with a chuckle. Rosie raised her eyebrows, not in a mocking way, but with interest, which shocked Sam. When he talked about flowers as though they were people or animals, hobbits usually looked at him like he was a few drinks short of a drunk man, but Rosie seemed fascinated. Encouraged, Sam ploughed onward. "The don' grow as well after new moon. After full moon, though..." Sam chuckled again. "That's when they really blossom!"

Rosie grinned, her whole face lighting up. "I never knew much about flowers and things," she admitted, stacking the last mug in the cupboard. "We only really learned cooking and cleaning from my Ma. And my Da never paid much attention to us, except to marry us off. Said he wanted best for us, but all my sisters married wealthy hobbits from other towns. We don't hear from them much."

Sam frowned at this, but decided it would be best not to say anything. Instead, he suggested, "Would you like a walk home, Miss Rosie? It's dark outside and there's any opportunity to get hurt walkin' alone." Rosie smiled as she put on her jacket.

"Yes, please, Sam. But there's no need to call me Miss Rosie—we've known each other since we were tweens. You don't have to call me Miss anything," Rosie said, stepping outside. The night was cool and mild, and clear, so the stars made up for some of the light that the moon was not giving. The shadows were deep and the usually bright green of most of the Shire was a muted but pretty silvery grey in the dim. There was no wind, and the only sounds were the crickets and birds. Suddenly it struck Sam that he and Rosie were totally alone.

They walked slowly along the road for a few moments, neither feeling any need to talk. The nervousness had left Sam and he felt completely comfortable—more comfortable than he felt by anybody else's side. "Beautiful outside," he murmured. Rosie nodded.

"It is, isn't it? I love this time of year, summer-time. It's so colourful and the whole world just looks like it's come alive," she explained. Sam smiled—it sounded just like something he would have said.

"Pardon me, Miss—that is, Rosie, but I didn't know you were a poet," Sam told her, glancing at her. Her bright brown eyes were sparkling, and the ribbons in her curly dark hair were coming slightly undone.

Rosie blushed, glancing at Sam, and with a start, he realized that they had both stopped walking and were standing by the side of the road, not far from Rosie's hobbit-hole. Cautiously, he turned to face her. "I'm nothing on you," Rosie said looking at the ground. Sam was confused—Rosie was a normally brave, outgoing, loud hobbit, and she always looked people in the eye. And then it hit him—something he had never even dared to hope before.

Sam glanced at the nearby hobbit-hole and then back at Rosie. It was now or never, Sam realized.

But, the question was, would he really ask her?

_Should_ he ask her?

Like she said, they'd known each other for years. And after tonight—Rosie was different around him, that much was certain, but Sam had always assumed it was because she knew how he felt, not because she felt the same way.

He loved her. And if he didn't ask her now, chances were he would never get this chance again, and then some wealthy hobbit would ask her, and she'd say yes.

As was hobbit-custom, Sam took Rosie's hands in his and looked her right in the eye. This, it struck him, was almost the easy part. Talking to her father would be a hundred times harder.

"Rose Cotton," Sam said. His voice started shaky but gained purchase as he went: "I haven't got anything fancy to give you—I haven't even got a ring. But you said it yourself, we've known each other for years and it's taken me that long to realize it but I love you. And I'll keep you happy, as happy as I can. Will you marry me?"

Rosie didn't say anything. Instead she threw herself on him and kissed him.

The kiss was heavenly. There was no other word for the way Sam felt with her lips gently pressed on his, one of his hands on her face, the other in her sweet-smelling hair. He could feel her touching his broad chest, stroking his serious face. The emotion in the way she kissed him was overwhelming; Sam felt love in that kiss, and devotion, but mostly he felt a single word, one bright, shining, glorious word: _yes._

She would marry him. She loved him, too.

It was heavenly.

When Sam and Rosie entered Rosie's home, they were holding hands indiscreetly. Rosie's father looked up suspiciously—his daughter had never brought a hobbit home before. "Hello Rosie... Samwise," he greeted them with a frown in his voice.

"Da," Rosie said, barely able to keep the smile off of her face, "Sam needs—that is, well, _Samwise_ wants to talk to you. It's important." Sam gave Rosie's father a smile that he hoped looked confident and enthusiastic. In reality, it looked like Sam was slightly nauseated at the idea of talking to Rosie's father—which he was.

The fat hobbit nodded. "Yes, all right... I know what this is about. Rosie, you can leave." Rosie slipped out the door and her father turned to Sam, an accusatory look on his round face. "You want to marry her, don't you?" he barked.

"Yes." Sam figured it was best to keep it simple. "I want to marry her."

The man blew out a smoke ring and lowered his pipe. "She could do better than you, you know. She's a right pretty girl, young, too, and them gardeners ain't rich folks, are they?"

Sam coughed self-consciously. "Well, no, sir, but I'm better off than some, and your Rosie won't never want for nothing under my roof, you can be sure about that. As long as I can keep her well and happy, I will," he said determinedly.

"Other hobbits have been 'round here, askin' to marry my Rosie. She turned them all down. Said she was waiting for someone," he said. Sam tried not to grin. Rosie had loved him all along. Why had it taken him so long to see it? "Do you love her?"

Sam nodded, and then decided it would probably be better to talk. "Yes, sir, I love her. Always have. I couldn't never hurt her, you can rest easy knowing your Rosie will be safe with me. Please, sir. I love her."

"I don' like it..." Rosie's father began carefully, "but she'll never forgive me if I don't give my blessing, and knowing her she'll just go out and marry you anyhow. So, Samwise Gamgee, I give you my Rose, in trust that you will keep her safe, and happy, and loved the rest of her days."

Sam beamed, and it was like the sun itself shone out of his face. "Thank you, sir! Thank you!"

The entire wedding was remembered in crystalline clarity by Sam afterwards. Hobbits had simple vows, and the ceremony itself was short, so as to leave plenty of time for celebration afterwards.

Sam stood under the small wooden bandstand, the mayor behind him ready to dictate the wedding. He watched as Rosie appeared about twenty, thirty feet away from out of the small white tent where she had been waiting. She walked to him alone, like all hobbit-maidens did at their weddings, and she was beautiful. Her pale face had slightly pink cheeks, her eyes were bright and sparkling, and her hair was let down, long enough to almost reach her waist. Her frame was soft and curvy, and the dress fell off of it perfectly, just long enough to reach her ankles but not touch the flowery, grassy ground.

When she reached him, they clasped hands and turned to face each other as the mayor started to speak: "The bonding of two hobbits in marriage is like the spreading of butter on bread; one cannot be separated from the other once the deed is done! Tell me, Samwise Gamgee, are you willing to take this maiden, Rose Cotton, into your house and home, to love her and to cherish her, to feed her and keep her well, and to be hers the rest of your days?"

Sam smiled, "I am willing."

"So, tell me, Rose Cotton, are you willing to take this hobbit, Samwise Gamgee, and live with him, to go into his house and home, to always be loyal to only him and be his for the rest of your days?"

Rosie smiled, "I am willing."

The mayor carried on, grinning as well, infected by the joy of the couple he was marrying. "Therefore I bind you, two, for the rest of your days. And you shall not marry or love another until your death. Samwise and Rose, bound by love, I bless you!"

The hobbit audience echoed, "Samwise and Rose, bound by love, we bless you." And then Sam took Rosie into his arms and kissed her.

Hobbit-wedding receptions were very merry, yet particular events. It was traditional that the guests arrive first, eating nothing but bread and drinking only the most mediocre of beers until the bride and groom arrived. This meant that the beginning of most receptions was filled with grumbling about hunger, thirst, and boredom. The bride and groom rarely took very long to arrive, and when they did, the feast began, and then the music and dancing. The celebrations went on late into the night and sometimes into the early morning.

Sam and Rosie took a few moments to themselves before heading to Sam's father's large garden, where the reception was being held. They stayed under the bandstand after they pulled out of the kiss and the crowd filed away from the short but sweet ceremony. Sam kept his arms around her waist, and she didn't move her arms from around his shoulders. Sam couldn't stop smiling—partially because of his own indescribable happiness, and partly because the woman in his arms is glowing with joy.

"We prob'ly shouldn't keep them waiting too long," Sam said regretfully, as though he would rather stay there, alone, quietly talking under the falling twilight. "They'd never forgive us." _Us._ The word was glorious on his tongue.

Rosie laughed, the skin around her bright, deep-set eyes crinkling. "Mm, Pippin especially," she agreed. "I wish we had some more time, just to be by ourselves. Of course, I can wait. I waited an entire year for you," she reminded him, seriousness turning to teasing. She poked him softly in the stomach and he laughed, too.

Sam stroked her hair gently and smiles at her reassuringly—had being with Rosie always been this _easy_? "We've all night to be alone," he reminded her. "I love you." He did love her. He must, he decided, have always loved her, because she was the only hobbit he'd ever needed. The only one he could never live without. It wasn't just her pretty face or her bright smile, it was the way she lit up a room and burst at the seams with personality, how she could be loud or softspoken, independent or dependent. How she showed real interest in what he did and how she was always ready to expand her horizons, learn. It was how she was kind enough to everybody, but still managed not to be too sickly sugar-sweet. It was how she was, somehow, everything he'd ever wanted, how she was the perfect complement to everything _he_ was.

It was the way she made him happy.

Rosie pecked his cheek. "I love you, too. But we'd better go. They must be starving."

When Sam and Rosie arrived hand and hand at the reception, Frodo was the first one to cheer. The others quickly joined in after him, clapping, and Pippin wolf-whistling. Sam glanced at Rosie and saw that her cheeks had turned pink, too. He grinned.

Once Sam and Rosie had taken their seats at the smallest table, with only Frodo and Merry and Pippin, Pippin hopped out of his seat and made his way to the podium some ways away, underneath a willow tree. He coughed dramatically.

"As the youngest friend of the groom here," he began, "I am obliged to make a speech." Sam glanced at Rosie, and then at Frodo, both of whom looked slightly worried. Pippin went on: "Unfortunately, I forgot to write one, so I suppose we're just going to be subjected to eating! Oh, well."

Laughter and applause rose from the hobbits as platters of roast meats, boiled vegetables, warm biscuits and butter, and warm, buttery, seasoned roasted potatoes were served and beer was poured out. This was exactly the kind of meal Sam loved, but he didn't taste it. He felt strangely separate from the babble of talk, and it wasn't until the food had been cleared away that he started to join in the conversation.

"So, Sam, I bet Rosie's Da wasn't too pleased with you," Merry said, taking a long swig from the mug of ale in front of him.

Sam coughed awkwardly. "He wasn't at first, but we got there in the end," he replied, looking at Rosie. He didn't want to meet Merry's eye. "The band's started. I suppose Rose and I ought to start dancing or they'll all start grumbling again," he adds.

Rosie nodded, still smiling, her face alight with excitement and joy. "We wouldn't want that. Come on, Sam. Goodbye, lads!" she cried as she left, holding Sam's hand. Sam ran a finger across hers and they met each other's eye.

The rest of that evening passed by in a blur for Sam. He grew tired of dancing quickly, but kept being passed from woman to woman, spinning in endless lively dances. Every time he had the good fortune to dance with Rosie—with his _wife_—he got a fresh spurt of energy, which, he decided, looking back on things, was probably the only reason he didn't pass out by nine thirty.

It was after midnight by the time everybody had dispersed, and Sam and Rosie were the last to leave, as per the usual. Sam was tired, but without the crush of hobbits and the constant sound of congratulations, he had a little more energy, a little more light in his eyes. He and Rosie didn't bother staying and cleaning, it was the job of the guests to do that the morning after. Instead, without really talking, without saying much of anything at all, they stood alone for a few minutes under the quiet stars, the hazy moon.

Frodo made the wise decision not to return to Bag End that night, leaving Rosie and Sam alone in its wide halls. Sam led his wife into the house and, since she'd been there before and knew her way around, he took her straight into the second largest bedroom.

"Sam..." she whispered, turning to face him. "Finally." She sighed. "Alone."

"Alone," he agreed, holding her close. He looked at her, the starlight shining from her very face, and he felt something he'd never felt for anybody before, not just attraction, not just a pull towards her, but a hot, burning, urgent and overwhelming physical _need_. He didn't say anything more, just leaned in to kiss the corner of her lips, and then her hands. He didn't need to think, he didn't need to consider anything. He just _acted_.

Without any conscious command from Sam's brain, his lips moved from Rosie's hands to her forehead, then her ears, and then down her neck. He pulled away slightly to breathe and she murmured into his ear, "My turn," rolling over so that they lay side by side, listening to each other breathe.

Sam let her slide her hands under his shirt. His body was charged with energy, a crackle ran over his skin and his senses were more acute that ever before. Everything she did, every movement of her hands on his skin, every press of her lips against him was exactly what he wanted, needed, craved. He had been tired, but now he couldn't have slept if he'd wanted to. For the first time, Samwise Gamgee thought he knew, really knew, what it was to be alive.

It seemed to happen without him noticing, but Sam's shirt had slipped over his head and Rosie's lips were dancing across his broad chest. Sam grabbed her hands and drew her close to him. "I love you. I've always loved you," he told her, pressing his cheek against hers. His hands roamed to the buttons going down the dress and he slowly, slowly began unbuttoning them.

"I love you too," Rosie said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Sam didn't think it was possible, but she moved even closer to him.

"I know," he whispered hoarsely. "I was an idiot not to see it before."

Sam shivered under her light touch. Love changes after marriage, he realized, after something this monumental. It didn't get any less, sweet, any less true or real, but it turned into crazy, stupid, I'd-do-anything, jump-off-a-cliff, give-it-my-all love. When you give your everything, he decided, something had to change. He didn't love Rosie any less—if anything, he loved her a thousand times more.

The emotion was even more overwhelming than the physical feeling. This moment when he and Rosie became one filled Sam's entire being. The world didn't exist anymore, not the Shire, or the ruins of Mordor, or Frodo or Merry or Sam or Aragorn, it was just him and Rosie, the centres of the world, together in perfect, flawless, forever unity. He didn't have to consider how to please her. He let his hands do what they wanted, responding to her movements as the two of them loved each other to the best of their ability. The centres of the world: Sam and Rosie, Rosie and Sam, Samwise and Rose, Gamgee and Cotton, together forever, united, one. "I'm yours," he muttered to her. "Wholly yours."

That night, Rosie and Sam fell asleep hand in hand.


End file.
